


Illusory Correlation and Confirmation Bias

by VanillaBroompolish



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Gen, John Watson in Afghanistan, Relationship Reveal, Secret Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-25
Updated: 2019-03-25
Packaged: 2019-12-07 10:47:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 10,448
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18233876
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VanillaBroompolish/pseuds/VanillaBroompolish
Summary: Looking back, there were a few things that should’ve tipped Greg off long before that night at the pub. A few things Sherlock left fairly obvious, that on reflection, made Greg question how he’d gotten his job in the first place.





	1. Sherlock’s Weekly Hour Off.

**Author's Note:**

> "Illusory correlation" Is used to describe people's tendencies to overestimate relationships between two groups when distinctive and unusual information is presented.  
> “Confirmation bias” is the tendency to search for, interpret, favour, and recall information in a way that confirms one's pre-existing beliefs or hypotheses.  
> "Stupid" is how Sherlock Holmes makes Greg Lestrade feel.

Looking back, there were a few things that should’ve tipped Greg off long before that night at the pub. A few things Sherlock left fairly obvious, that on reflection, made Greg question how he’d gotten his job in the first place.

The first tip off was maybe the most well known among those at the force.

Wednesdays at 4pm, for around one hour every week, Sherlock wasn’t available.

It’d been a known fact since Greg first told Sherlock he’d decided to keep him on as a consultant. The cocky man had shaken his hand said it was about time Greg came around, to only contact him with interesting cases and he didn’t work Wednesdays between 3:45pm and 5:15pm.

Greg hadn’t really known what to think about that at the time.

Certainly strange hours to hold a part-time job. Lord knows what class a 28 year old man with that intelligence might be taking every week. Overall though it didn’t really matter did it? Sherlock Holmes was still solving cases, wasn’t involved in anything (too) illegal that Greg knew about, so it didn’t really matter to the detective inspector what he was up too.

The officers around the yard didn’t feel the same way as Greg unfortunately. Since Sherlock’s brutally honest encounters didn’t afford him the same professional curtsey that they extended to others, his weekly off times were the source of much conversation around the office by his third or fourth case working with the yard.

A few months into their partnership, (back when Sally and Sherlock still hated each other with a fiery passion that had, quite frankly, scared Greg) they’d been in the middle of working a case involving 3 murdered tourists when a phone alarm interrupted the raising voices in the room.

Greg watched as Sherlock pulled out his phone, his face losing its normally cold composure and turning into something akin to unease before silencing the alarm.

“I’ll be back in an hour.” Sherlock said, ignoring Anderson and Sally’s indignant squawks, already walking to the door.

“Sherlock you can’t just leave!” Greg needed to have this case solved 2 murders ago.

“I told you 5 months ago Lestrade. I don’t work Wednesdays –quarter to 4 until quarter after 5. Regardless of case.” He didn’t even wait for Greg to finish sputtering before the door was whipped opened and shut with a flourish and bang.

Dramatic twat.

“Arsehole.” Sally muttered, still flushed from the argument that had only been going on a minute before hand.

Greg didn’t even bother chastising her; his thoughts were running a similar path after all. He hadn’t forgotten about the Wednesdays off, he’d gotten a case only a few weeks ago and waited the 38 minutes to call even though he’d not known exactly what he’d been waiting for. Greg had just assumed that when the man was on a case that rule no longer applied. For god sakes, they weren’t entirely sure if the killer had a new victim of not.

“What do you wanna’ bet he’s got a John waiting for him in some posh hotel.” Sally conspired a moment later examining her cuticles.

“What?!”

“Donovan!”

“Sir! Come _on_ –the tailored suits, an hour every week, that fancy black car that picked him up from that scene before his ‘ _Christmas Break_ ’.”Her fingers made quotations, her eyebrows lifting in innuendo. “Hundred pounds it’s some fat rich bastard with a kink.” She ended confidently.

The inspector found himself shaking his head and cringing, trying to dislodge the mental image of Sherlock Holmes being sexual at all.

“I’m going to be sick.” Anderson mumbled from his spot in the corner, exaggeratingly gagging into his hand.

“Jesus Donovan. You can’t _say_ things like that.” Greg pleaded, sitting in his chair with an exasperated sigh. He needed a break from all the suspect sheets anyways and as much as it pained him to say it they probably wouldn’t find the guy without Sherlock’s help anyway.

“I’m just saying the man has no problem flirting with civilians to get information. Who’s to say he wouldn’t do a little more for a few hundred pounds?” She shrugged, throwing herself into a seat and throwing her feet onto the corner of Greg’s desk.

“That’s –defamatory –slander –something. Can’t say it Sally.” God, only 4 years ago he’d not had a single grey hair on his head now he looked more and more like his Pa every day.

“You know what I think.” Anderson’s nasally tone began. “I think if he doesn’t have a chat with his therapist, he’ll snap and go mad.”

Greg let out a grunt of protest. “Anderson! That’s almost worst than Sally, come on.”

Anderson rolled his eyes but couldn’t resist trying to persuade someone, anyone, to his side.

“He’s not going anywhere –doesn’t have time to with this traffic. You said yourself Lestrade; the line was busy when you called him during that domestic with updates. Remember? What do you want to bet the alarm is so the Freak can remember to take his anti-psychotics? Bet he has to call his doctor so she can talk him into taking them.”

“ _Fucking Christ_ Anderson,”

“Jesus Phil.” Sally even sounded a little shocked at Anderson’s words.

“What? _What_? You know it’s true!”

“That’s way out of line Anderson. Another comment like that and I write you up understand?” He couldn’t have his officers starting rumours like that. Sherlock could definitely sue for defamation if he ever heard that. “Feel how you want about Sherlock but remember you’re a member of this force and you’re expected to represent us in a respectable manor. We clear?”

“Yes, Sir.” Anderson bit out his reply, the reprimand had clearly embarrassed him but he was too proud to admit fault.

“I can’t believe you said that Phil. You know about my sister. How stupid a can you be.” Sally’s hurt whisper echoed through the room and Greg tried to tune out the fight that seemed to be beginning his office.

If they wanted to argue on their break, by all means, let them.

Greg tried to relax, thinking about the mystery of Sherlock, a far less stressful unknown than the current case. Sally’s comment was just a joke and he knew she meant as much when she proposed it (at least that’s what he was telling himself). The black car had been the same one to accost him after his first case with Sherlock, later finding out it was the man’s twice as strange, twice as intelligent brother so he knew it wasn’t anything like that. Might have just been a posh cab, after all the 4 weeks off Greg had assumed that aristocratic little shit probably went skiing in Switzerland or some other nonsense that old money did on the holidays. Maybe visiting his parents? He really had no idea about that but it wouldn’t be the strangest thing for Sherlock to have family to spend with.

Greg could not –did not – picture Sherlock catering sex to some faceless person for money. Maybe for a good case, but the good detective hadn’t heard about any other officer using Sherlock’s particular set of skills.

Detective skills. Not sexual skills.

He shook his head.

As much as Greg would have liked to laugh off Anderson’s theory, it hit a little too close for comfort. 15 minutes to make the call, 15 minutes to pull yourself together afterward. An hour in between to get anything off your chest, maybe for a pill to start having effects… Greg himself had heard the consultant ramble for minutes seemingly without taking a breath, surely an hour could be filled with the freight train of consciousness that that man could unload at whim.

Greg had questioned before whether Sherlock had some sort of social disorder or was a savant of some sort but didn’t know enough about the subjects to say for sure. All Greg knew was that when Sherlock had a case, he zeroed in like a dog with a scent, and when he didn’t he became a 28 year old man child.

But really he had no right to complain he supposed. After all, when Sherlock had a case he didn’t seem to stop until he got his answers. Greg would get calls at all hours asking for excess on documents, criminal history, evidence, sometimes the body. The man didn’t seem to care about things like sleep or breaks when a case was active, his face becoming visibly paler, shadows deepening under his eyes.

As long as Sherlock wasn’t a danger to himself or anyone else, Greg really shouldn’t worry himself about it. Not his business after all.

Sherlock returned 15 minutes before his expected time victoriously spouting off about freelance tour guides and Air B’n’B listings, and the case progressed in record time.

Greg actively putting Sherlock’s hour off out of his head until the elder Holmes months later told him about Sherlock’s sordid past with drugs. The detective inspector simply assumed the phone calls were to a sponsor or a support line from that point on.

So when Sherlock came back from his calls, new leads springing from his head, Greg just thanked the bastard who helped them out.

And when the man came back subdued and introspective, well, if a few more cold cases got solved that week and a man stayed sober, who was going to complain?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm my own beta ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯so if you've seen any mistakes don't hesitate to tell me  
> All comments welcome.  
>   
> follow me on my tumblr [here](https://vanillabroompolish.tumblr.com)!


	2. Sherlock’s Particular Interests

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anyone could tell you Sherlock Holmes knew a lot about a number of things. Only his friends could tell you he was a bit thick.

Anyone could tell you Sherlock Holmes knew a lot about a number of things.

Only his friends could tell you he was a bit thick.

Someone smarter could tell you why he followed things like James Bond movies and war coverage but not politics or the film industry as a whole.

Greg was not one of those people.

It should be said that Sherlock never learned anything he thought was boring, dull, irrelevant or un-useful towards a case. His handy trick of deleting information he didn’t need (such as names Greg suspected) allowed to him focus only on beneficial subjects.

Greg had seen him firsthand recite geographic coordinates for across southern Britain from memory, chemical compositions, dirt compositions, ash compositions; every type of bloody composition, all from memory. On any given case the man had an index of any and all available information they’d come across. Obscure cases from 1600’s, Scandinavian royalty protocol, cookery manufacture dates, the location of actual modern day cobblers.

Sometimes Greg felt like he was living in an episode of QI or scrolling down his social media feeds–he was constantly picking up useless information he could never seem to remember.

It was the announcement of a pub trivia night two years after they met that really clued Greg into how little Sherlock actually knew about everyday things.

Sally and Sherlock had learned to tolerate each other, a begrudging respect towards each other (or himself, he didn’t know) had been keeping the peace for the last few months. Anderson was off on vacation, attempting a final patch up with his wife. Molly was off free and interested in a night out. The newbie officer –David Munsen –needed help adjusting after his placement in the city. The game required 4-6 players per team, whether Sherlock came or not, they were still 3 cops and an expert in biology and science.

It seemed like a perfect night to invite Sherlock out with them.

The group was on their second round when Sally suddenly sputtered into her drink.

“Bloody hell, I didn’t think he’d actually come.” The mix-matched team looked over to where she was gawking and Greg was actually surprised to see Sherlock weaving his way through the crowd, a nervous tenseness in his face.

“You lot better be nice. That man is going to win us a thousand quid tonight.” Greg whispered before chugging half his glass in triumph.

(Oh how wrong Greg would prove to be.)

“Sherlock! Can’t believe you actually came, I thought I was going to have to bribe you to one of these with a case or something! “Greg exclaims when Sherlock makes it near their table. He’s laying it on bit thick but Sherlock’s only come to The Duck’s Bill a half a dozen times in the last year and Greg worried that the man spent far too much time alone surrounded by crime and murder.

Also he really wanted to win that money.

“The bribe would still be accepted. Molly, Donovan. Officer.” Sherlock says as he pulls out the empty chair opposite Greg.

David introduces himself as the group shuffles mugs around the table to make room for their new addition. Greg lets out a quiet thankful sigh when Sherlock accepts the young officer’s presence without comment; he didn’t think it would be a problem but evidently knowing a man for 2 years doesn’t mean you actually know him any better.

They settle in, Sherlock ordering a whiskey when the worn out waitress swings by their table. The conversations are slightly awkward but Greg is just pleased they’re happening at all and sets about enjoying the night.

The hum of the pub builds up to a dull roar after about ten minutes and he realizes why as a man places a registration paper on their table before moving on to the next.

“I was always pants at naming things. Any of you got ideas?” Sally says while handing the paper off to Molly.

“The Yard?”

“Lestrade, two members of the group don’t actually work for Scotland Yard. It wouldn’t be a very honest name. Or a very good one.” Sherlock drawled, sipping his glass with the heir of a man who was too good for the room. Greg gave him a quick two-fingered salute in reply. Sherlock’s comments barely fazed him at this point.

“The Crimebusters?” David offers. His expression telling in the lack of faith he has in his own suggestion.

“Sounds like a kids program. You geniuses got anything?” Sally jerked her head towards Molly and Sherlock.

Sherlock pursed his lips in thought for a moment. “The Queen’s Anne Revenge. The Royal Fortune is quite fitting if you’re feeling particularly confident.”

“The bloody hell did you get those names? Can’t tell me that’s off the top of your head.” Greg questioned, ignoring the obvious fact that there were far better suggestions than the ones David and himself had offered.

Sherlock gave a rare careless shrug. “Ship names.”

“Stephen Fry over here is our ringer –Who has useless stuff like that floating around their head? We’ve got this bloody thing in the bag!” Sally stretched over the table to high-five a grinning Munsen.

“I think The Royal Fortune is better.” Molly says, smiling nervously.

Greg raised his pint to the center and cheered, “To the Royal Fortune!”

The first few rounds go great. They’re racking up points, dividing up questions, Greg is learning quite a bit about his fellow team mates. Sherlock knows a surprising amount about flowers, probably more so than a consultant detective might have had to know for his job in crime. Molly was something like an animal expert; correcting misnomers, naming obscure facts, and species at the drop of a hat.

They don’t even question it by the third time she answers before the question is finished; even Sherlock is nodding his head along to her answers with an impressed look on his face.

David ended up being fantastic at geography and history. He knew the answers to things like takeovers and power struggles, cities names a millennia ago and the migration of various races and people throughout the years. The Game Master had spun a globe 3 times and every time David had been able to name the random (sometimes unfamiliar) countries, capitals, and cities.

Donovan had seemed to know every little fact about every actor in every movie (where she found the time to watch anything was a mystery still). She won the 6 Degrees of Kevin Bacon round in 10 seconds, going from Michael Cera to Audrey Hepburn in a series of jumps Greg could never have hoped to get.

It was actually thanks to Sally that Sherlock’s ignorance came to light.

“How have you not heard of Marilyn Monroe?!” Sally bellowed in outrage during their brief 5 minute break.

“Probably deleted it.” Sherlock says, nursing his second glass of the night, his voice bored.

“Wha-! _What!_ How do you _delete_ Marilyn Monroe!? What about Brad Pitt? Spielberg, _Star Wars_? _Chaplin_? Please tell me at least you’ve know what I’m talking about when I say ‘ _I’ll be back_ ’!” Sally cried when she got no response.

Sherlock shows no reaction, only blinking slowly in return.

“The _Doctor_? _”_ Sally whispers across the table looking desperate and lost.

“Oz?”

“ _Mate_ , you know Dr. Oz and not Doctor who?” David says, looking distressed. After all this is his first meeting with the man who singlehandedly solved 6% of all murder related crimes on file in London in the last year.

Sherlock gazed at David for a long moment, his eyebrows slowly lifting with each second.

“Not the doctor who _does what_?” Sherlock finally asked exasperated, clearly waiting for David to explain something that Greg never thought needed to be explained to a British citizen.

“What Englishman doesn’t know Doctor Who?” Sally's voice was in horrific awe as she stared at the detective.

They start to lose points after that. The gaps in Sherlock’s knowledge are just far too interesting for the group to ignore.

He doesn’t seem to mind the constant questions, the soft smile on his face telling Greg one of three things; either Sherlock was past his limit, that Greg was past his limit and seeing things, or Sherlock thought it was funny they were so shocked and was just having a laugh.

Sherlock could solve a case by glancing around a room and taking a whiff of a door frame.

Sherlock couldn’t however tell you if the earth revolved around the sun.

He could tell you 300 different tartan patterns and the families they belonged to but couldn’t say what three-quarters of the world’s flags looked like or who might possibly be running those countries. The man could name a dozen Islamic prayers but the words ‘Good Friday’ were utterly meaningless to him. Sherlock could fluently speak French, Italian, Mandarin, Dari, Korean, Pashto, Russian and could even read Latin; however, he couldn’t name or hum a single song that had come out in the last decade.

 _William and Kate?_ They had asked him.

 _Have they been murdered?_ He’d replied.

They don’t win; they’re too busy trying to stump Sherlock with pop culture references and basic facts well into the night to care about the game.

The odd crew – _The Royal Fortune –_ decides to get together more often after that, promising to get their head together by next year’s trivia night to win the loot. Surprisingly enough Sherlock ends up joining the group at least once a month. (They’ve yet to make it half way through a trivia night without being forced to concede the game because of their pestering.)

It gets around after that first trivia night that Sherlock Holmes is a man of very odd, very specific interests.

Want to talk about the state of cougar migration patterns changing in rural Afghanistan thanks to Military presence? Sherlock’s your guy.

Want to ask him his thoughts on Mark Zuckerberg?

Well.

_Is he that new technician? Tell me they’ve finally replaced Anderson with someone at least competent. Whoever Zuckerberg is, he better not touch my crime scene!_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm my own beta ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯so if you've seen any mistakes don't hesitate to tell me  
> All comments welcome.  
>   
> follow me on my tumblr [here](https://vanillabroompolish.tumblr.com)!


	3. Sherlock’s Love Life

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg started to get the distinct impression that Sherlock was amused with him

The third clue –and looking back, the most obvious one –was Sherlock’s lack of interest. In anyone.

It wasn’t that Greg had never seen Sherlock flirt. Unfortunately for him he’d seen his fair share of witnesses and suspects charmed and coaxed into revealing vital information. The madman seemed to know exactly what to say and how to say it to get what he wanted and it always made Greg uneasy to watch. He never meant it of course, which is what made it just so… _wrong_ ; he’d just turn it on, the charm, the interest and intrigue. When he got what he’d wanted the mask just fell away, like attraction was a jacket to be shrugged on and off when needed.

Greg had never seen him flirt for the sake of just flirting.

Not to say the opportunity hadn’t been presented to the consulting detective. Greg had seen strangers, witnesses, and suspects of every walk of life and gender make passes at the lunatic. A number of them not even waiting for the man get a word in before they were sending looks, bumping shoulders, biting lips, the whole show. If he didn’t verbally destroy their will to talk to a potential partner again, Sherlock would simply ignore it. To the point where Greg questioned if the man who saw everything even realized he was getting hit on.

The first year of their ‘ _friendship_ ’ Greg assumed the man’s social conduct was a deterrent enough for most people to date him.

The second year he started wondering if it was a self-esteem or embarrassment thing. Sherlock seemed to know everything about nearly every subject, maybe relationship and sex was where he failed? Lord knew the man couldn’t even make small talk for shit.

The third, fourth, fifth and sixth years didn’t get Greg any closer to answers.

(He refused to even listen to the crime scene photo rumours, and made it clear that comments like those are what got childish forensic officers written up.)

About 3 years into their friendship Greg, having been nearly positive he understood Sherlock then, had spent months at that point gnawing on the same theory.

Sherlock was gay.

Only thing that made sense to him. The suits, the flourishing about with the coat, the hair… the suits.

It just fit.

Had to.

It was the odd night after a case that Sherlock had joined Greg to the pub, the detective was still not entirely comfortable coming out more than once a month. He didn’t come out often even, but enough that Greg was (pretty) sure that Sherlock didn’t truly think he was losing brain cells in their company. Sally had left with a very drunk David a little while earlier and Greg had seen his opportunity to get his answers.

He was a pint more confident than he maybe should have been but dealing with Sherlock on a personal level called for an extra glass.

Or three.

He turned to his left, the bar digging into his ribs as he put on his best friendly-not-your-boss-just-talking-no-big-deal face.

“So, what are you looking for, y’know, in man?”

Upon reflection the next day Greg decided that it hadn't been his best moment in subtly.

Sherlock turned towards him slightly, his hand coming up to cover his mouth as he leaned against the bar and looked at Greg. He tried his best to look his most trustworthy but felt his focus slipping as the night’s alcohol sloshed around his body. The inspector blinked away his light-headedness, trying to keep his eyes locked with the other mans but failing to keep himself steady.

They stared at each other for an awkwardly long time as Sherlock’s hand tapped against his face. Greg started to get the distinct impression that Sherlock was amused with him, and was about to say ‘forget it’ when the other man spoke.

“I’m not.” Sherlock finally said; his hand moving away as he sipped his drink and looked away from Greg.

The Inspector opened his mouth to ask what that meant, but the small smile playing along Sherlock’s mouth shut him up. They sat in silence, only the sound of Sherlock _tap-tap-tap-_ ing on his glass before abruptly getting into the details of a cold case he’d been working on part-time.

He never did manage ask again.

After that night, if Greg had to guess Sherlock’s sexuality, just on the amount of times he’d seen the man look at a another breathing human body –without it being for deducing purposes –he would’ve said asexual.

But for some reason the tap of Sherlock’s fingers against the glass as the odd man grinned at the bar table echoed in his mind every time Greg thought about Sherlock’s love life. The feeling of idiocy and embarrassment settling over him until he forced himself to think about more important things.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> just a short chapter but it was honestly the scene I pictured first and remains my favorite :)
> 
> I'm my own beta ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯so if you've seen any mistakes don't hesitate to tell me  
> All comments welcome.  
>   
> follow me on my tumblr [here](https://vanillabroompolish.tumblr.com)!


	4. Sherlock’s Flat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The problem was Greg was as dense as a rock, at least when it came to Sherlock Holmes.

The fourth clue should have been the flat.

The problem was Greg was as dense as a rock, at least when it came to Sherlock Holmes.

The prickly man had never actually invited Greg into his place. Sure, the detective inspector had been there dozens of times, even sat down once, but he’d never actually been invited in, or invited to stay. More often than not Sherlock’s sweet little landlady would just let Greg, and sometimes Sally, right in without so much as blinking an eye.

He’d been tempted to break in under the guise of a drugs bust, especially when a vital piece of evidence was missing and Sherlock was pissing him off more than usual. The inspector always refrained though. The man hadn’t been an addict since long before he’d ever been working with the police. Bringing it up was a low blow in Greg books and mentioning it would probably only cause problems for Greg rather than Sherlock.

What usually ended up happening was yelling and some scathing comments until Greg threatening to withhold future cases and someone’s bluff was called.

At first glance, the flat’s a contrast to the man Sherlock Holmes appears to be.

Sherlock came from money. Greg didn’t need to be the best detective in the world to see that. The man wore bespoke suits and took a cab everywhere he went, it wasn’t a massive leap to make, especially given the way he spoke. Looking at his furniture told a completely different story though. Not a single item matched. Not one. There was a tartan chair, Victorian couch, a modern seater, and 4 completely different dining chairs around an industrial table.

Some sort of taxidermy ox, or bull was hanging from the wall that seemed like it was the most morbid thing in the room till you saw the _actual human skull_ sitting on the mantel. Above the skull a map of what Greg assumed was the middle-east stuck to the wall with various kitchen and pocket knives, little red pins scattered all over, red string attaching them to newspaper clippings that framed around. Jars and tubes nearly always covered the surface of the kitchen.

It was all vaguely horrifying on a fleeting look. Just the decrepit house of a mad scientist with a mild hoarding problem if you didn’t look a little harder.

When you got to know Sherlock a bit, things like the jars of human body parts, human skull, and disarray of papers made a little more sense.

If the man who lived there didn’t pull your attention, and the skull didn’t drag your eyes back to it, you’d see some things you wouldn’t expect a person like Sherlock Holmes to have.

The union jack pillow, RAMC mug, and tea set with the united kingdom printed on were entirely too patriotic for the man Greg thought he knew. Sherlock couldn’t name a single royal that was currently living, and didn’t seem to respect anyone who worked in government. (Relative or not.) Granted they were not the oddest things in the room. The head phones over the dead animal always made the silver-haired man double take. It took 3 years for Greg to realize there was a Cluedo board nailed underneath it.

The more he saw over the years, the less it all made sense.

There were two shelves of medical texts and biology books (which made sense to him), and nearly 4 shelves about bees and pollination (which never did). The soft fleece blanket on the sofa and forested landscape painting down the hall were oddly homey for someone he’d never seen give a hug or even look comfortable receiving one (acting or not, even Sherlock couldn’t hold back a flinch when his space was invaded).

On one such occasion, having immediately jumped in his car and rushing to Baker Street upon discovering (at one time) key evidence missing after the end of a case, the older man learned a little more about Sherlock Holmes thanks to his flat.

Greg bound up the stairs to 221B; body checking the slightly open front door with more force than necessary; the bang of the door causing the man of the inspector’s ire to jump despite the early warning of thundering footstep.

“Where the _bloody hell_ is it Sherlock!” Greg bellowed, his anger waning when he saw the look of unease in Sherlock’s eyes. The Inspector took way too much glee in scaring the man who single-handedly increased his paracetamol tolerance.

“I don’t know what-“

“ _Sherlock_! Just.” Greg took a deep breath. “Just get it. You can tell me why you thought that was okay in the car.”

Sherlock eyed him from the chair. “There’s no reason for me to join you to-“

“I need your bloody statement Sherlock. You know this -you work on the case, you have to make a statement.”

“The knife is useless you know. The body showed-“

“Don’t care! You can’t take my evidence! Go get my _bloody knife!_ ” There were only so many times in a span of 5 years he could have the _same argument_ with the _same man._ Luckily for the few remaining youthful hairs on Greg head Sherlock arose from the couch, head held high with false dignity. He watched the younger man silently as he walked in all his posh glory past the detective and towards the stairs by the exit.

“Where. Are you. Going.” Greg bit out.

“To the room upstairs to retrieve your _evidence_ Lestrade. Or were you hoping I snap my fingers and it appear in your hands?” He said before marching up the slabs. “That's a bit out of my range of skills Inspector.” He called behind him.

Greg ignored everything after evidence, and curiously followed behind Sherlock.

“Didn’t even know you had a room up here.” He said as they opened the door at the top.

The consulting detective paused, his head slowly tipping back as a long suffering sigh erupted from him.

(It reminded Greg uncannily of his Mum explaining to him for the umpteenth time when he was 8 why he couldn’t tackle his brother. Not even outside.)

As Sherlock got to work shifting various boxes, none labelled, Greg wondered how the man could afford to live the way he did. A two floor, two bedroom flat in prime real estate London? That probably cost about the same as Greg’s condo to rent. The force didn’t pay Sherlock handsomely by any means, his pay sometimes a fraction of what they should be because of case costs and legal fees, and as far as Greg knew he did a majority of his private investigations pro bono.

That trust fund must have been quite the size.

“What did your parents do?” Greg found himself asking. He hoped the relatively fresh satisfaction from solving the case would permit him an answer from an otherwise sealed ship.

Sherlock looked at him briefly before resuming his search. “My father sold water heaters, and my mother taught math.”

What?

“Really?” A bag was pushed into Greg’s chest as he stared confusedly at Sherlock.

Greg didn’t see the eye roll so much as feel it as Sherlock brushed passed him and towards the stairs. “Y _es_ Lestrade –Get the light –they were perfectly normal people. Not psychopaths or MENSA members despite what you may have thought.”

Greg shook his head despite his position behind the other man.

“That’s not it. Just thought they would have been CEO’s or Socialites. Something like that.”

“You thought my family was wealthy?” Sherlock said as he grabbed coat.

“Well yeah. Suits, cabs, accent.” Greg said, surprised he was still talking about his family at all. Maybe the man wasn’t as closed off as he thought?

“Quite a few tailors owe me favours. I make a point to take cases with tailors actually. The accent…” Sherlock paused doing up his coat before shrugging and continuing. “Tutors, boarding school, product of the environment. I will admit a large amount of finances seem to be for cab fare, but the cost is worth not dealing with disgruntled Londoners on the underground.”

Greg thought about that as they descended the stairs. His mind too groggy from the last few days to understand what was making him feel like he was missing something obvious.

“Ms Hudson must be giving you one hell of a deal.” Greg said as they left the building. “What’s the rent?”

Sherlock gave a meaningless hum. “Not my area.”

“Lord help that sweet old landlady. She’s a saint for not charging a tosser like you double. Police having to collect their evidence constantly, knocking down her door. That poor woman shouldn’t have to-“Greg worked himself up again after that, lecturing Sherlock half way to the station before the genius explained to him all the reasons the knife wouldn’t be needed in court.

Greg never thought to ask whose area it was to pay rent.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm my own beta ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯so if you've seen any mistakes don't hesitate to tell me  
> All comments welcome.  
>   
> follow me on my tumblr [here](https://vanillabroompolish.tumblr.com)!


	5. Sherlock’s Holiday Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Where’s a man like you holiday anyway?"

Sherlock always took two holidays a year.

One for about 4 weeks around Christmas time, and another sometime in the summer, usually for around a week.

The first holiday Greg learned about and coincidentally the first and only one he’d seen the man actually leave for was a bit of a shock.

They’d only been working together a few months, Greg was still hesitant to let the genius in on cases that weren’t of vital importance. A string of robberies had occurred over the past month targeted towards antique shops and they’d been on the trail of the burglar for about a week at that point when Sherlock informed him of his plans out of the blue.

Well, not informed him exactly; He’d said ‘ _You’d better hope he’s cocky enough to strike again soon. I’m off starting the 9th. Your forensics are no better than school children Lestrade, have them learn proper crime scene procedure. This whole building has been rendered useless by your incompetent team. We’ll need to wait for the next break-in and I’m not working this case on my holiday.’_

Greg hadn’t really known what to do with that.

Luckily a new crime scene had been found on the final hours of the 8th, Sherlock announcing facts with speed and gaze flicking to his phone every few moments. He’d deduced the killer a Chris Durden, a witness to one of their first robberies, clapping his hands in victory and pronouncing his success a wonderful start to his Christmas break. Before the Detective Inspector could accost him for details Sherlock was already walking towards a black car, telling Greg he would email him everything else and to leave him alone till January.

The second holiday Sherlock took was in the middle of the summer.

Now Sherlock didn’t come back any visibly different from his winter holiday (which is why Greg always thought upper-class ski resorts) but it always took him a little while to get back into the job. He was always a little grumpier, a little quieter. When Sherlock came back from his summer holidays though, it was always with an immediate text to Greg demanding any case he might have. The sheer amount of intensity Sherlock brought to those cases in the summer always made Greg question if the man had taken a holiday at all or if he just had some government job or overseas work.

Greg wouldn’t have even thought the man left England if it weren’t for the small burn over his face and cluster of freckles that appeared on his nose. Actual visible evidence he’d been somewhere with too much sun for his pale skin to handle. They’d never really talked about it besides a ‘ _Nice tan_ ’ from the amused older man and a dismissive eye roll from Sherlock so he wasn’t sure where the other man vacationed. Looking at the suits, Greg thought maybe Italy or Greece; maybe some Moroccan villa who knows.

It continued like that for 5 years. Sherlock being MIA for 4 weeks around December and his summer week away to some sunny spot god knows where. Greg hadn’t really thought to ask where the man went during Christmas till the detective came back from his last winter break. Greg had realized over the few weeks that if Sherlock didn’t have a trust fund how in the world could he afford 4 weeks off in some lavish hotel or resort? He clearly hadn’t been skiing or perusing Paris shops and tailors like Greg had assumed so where did he go for a month every year?

When he got around to asking the man during a dull moment on their first case since his return, the answer he got wasn’t what he’d thought he’d hear.

“How was the holiday?” Greg asked as they were waiting for results from the lab. They’d been standing around for about 10 minutes for someone to send over the results and while Sherlock had his phone to keep his attention, the older man didn’t have much else besides conversation.

“Fine.”

Greg rolled his eyes. Small talk was not one of Sherlock’s gifts. “Four weeks.” He let out a long whistle. “Can’t have been cheap. Where’s a man like you holiday anyway?"

“My flat.”

The inspector’s head whipped towards the other man. “What?”

Sherlock glanced at him briefly before his attention was back on his phone.

“My. Flat.“ He enunciated.

Greg’s eyebrows furrowed. “You’re just –What. In your flat? Four weeks. No cases. Celebrating Christmas –by yourself?”

Sherlock sighed heavily before pocketing his phone, shifting against the wall to send the most condescending vibes possible. “ _Ye-es._ I'm not alone, I use the time to see my family outside London. Is that so hard for you to believe?” He asked his face impassive.

Greg thought he might just have insulted the man.

“Piss off you know I don’t think that. It’s just hard to picture you decorating the tree, singing carols, you know, all that yuletide nonsense. I always figured you’d have to be out of the country to not take a case for that long.” Greg shrugged.

Sherlock grinned. “I have stumbled upon a few too interesting to ignore but I’ve been reliably informed it’s not exactly ‘ _good_ ’ to be accosting civilians on crimes while their children are opening gifts 10 feet away.”

“Jesus. Tell me that didn’t happen.”

“It didn’t happen then.”

Greg cringed.

The conversation ended with the sound of the lab door opening, and the case resumed. Sherlock Holmes’ break pushed aside till later when Greg makes a note to stop by the consulting detectives flat next Christmas with some horrible gift to embarrass the man.

He doesn’t get a chance.

The next October Sherlock sends him a text saying he needs to take an early break and that’d he’d let him know when he was available again and Greg spends the next 3 months worrying about the detective, wondering if he should’ve arranged a drugs bust after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm my own beta ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯so if you've seen any mistakes don't hesitate to tell me  
> All comments welcome.  
>   
> follow me on my tumblr [here](https://vanillabroompolish.tumblr.com)!


	6. 1+ In Which Greg Has It All Laid Out For Him.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _I’m bringing John though. -SH_

Greg signed the final sheet of paperwork with a tired sigh. A long week of interviewing witnesses and suspects only to end up arresting the brother who’d alerted the police in the first place.

A bloody waste of time.

Sherlock had picked up the files only a few days ago and by yesterday afternoon had texted him with the smoking gun they needed (or green ladder in this case).

A slow knock pulled the exhausted man’s attention.

“Drinks tonight? David wants to get together.” Sally waved her phone halfheartedly.

“I should head home but why not” Greg said shutting down his computer and gathering his coat. “I’ll text Molly and Sherlock, see if the resident geniuses want to join us.”

“Molly’s already on her way. Has to stop off at her flat and feed her cats first though.”

“I’ll text Sherlock then. You want to carpool? I’m leaving my car here; I’ll cab it in the morning.”

“Split a cab there. I’ll meet you out front yeah?” Sally said heading back to her own desk when Greg gave her a nod.

He made his way to the elevators, and pulled out his phone to text the consulting detective. The case hardly required the amount of excitement Sherlock had brought that week and Greg hoped a night out might help bring the man back to a relatively normal state.

 

 

> **_Duck’s Bill. 30mins. Whole crew_ ** **_is going._**

As Greg pressed the elevator call he got his response.

 

 

> **_It’s a week day Lestrade. Not interested. –SH_ **

Greg rolled his eyes as he tapped out his answer, ignoring the first part of Sherlock’s answer.

 

 

> **_Get your arse there. You_ ** **_hvn’t been out wt_ _us in almost 4 mnths._**

As he entered the elevator and descended he decided that if Sherlock was going to be difficult he simply would threaten to withhold cases for a while. It worked before, surely it work again.

Sherlock had taken his strange leave of absence, lasting for almost 3 months and only just returned to police work, though not with quite the same attitude as before. It’d been a stressful few months wondering if Sherlock had relapsed but from his appearance a few weeks ago everything seemed fine.

Greg _had_ noticed some peculiar behaviour though that had tipped the inspector off to not everything being completely as it was.

For one it was strange that’d Sherlock had asked for ‘a relatively simple’ case for his return when every other time he’d come back from a break Greg would be the victim of Sherlock’s ire should the inspector fail to deliver a ‘challenge’.

He’s also just seemed…

Different.

As the door opened to the lobby the phone buzzed with 2 new messages as service returned.

 

 

> **_We’ve seen each other several_ ** **_times this week during the case. -SH_ **
> 
> **_Fine. –SH_ **

Greg smirked in triumph, no doubt in his mind Sherlock changed his when he realized what would inevitably happen to his precious cases. Even if Sherlock was just coming for fun he’d take the win. Lord knows the man could use some normal human interaction once in awhile.

He was tempted to gloat when his phone buzzed a third time, the message bringing him to a halt in the middle of the atrium.

 

 

> **_I’m bringing John though. -SH_ **

What Greg wanted to send was ‘ _Who the fuck is John´_ what he actually ending up typing out was;

 

 

> **_Ok?_ **

He distractedly made his way out front to wait for Sally while rereading Sherlock’s message, his fingers itching to ask what he wanted to when Sherlock gave no reply to Greg’s unasked question.

Maybe it was the sponsor? It would make sense if the reason for Sherlock’s abrupt departure the other month was a relapse. First night out since the setback, he might be afraid he’ll relapse again in that environment even with 3 police officers there as deterrent. Well it would be fairly stupid to try and buy class A drugs with 3 cops around but Sherlock was reckless if anything so Greg wouldn’t put it past the man.

It wouldn’t be like Sherlock to expose such a vulnerable part of his life though. He could’ve just skipped the night, cases withheld or not, if it was that much of a temptation.

There was always a chance it was just some fellow Sherlock had picked up from the yard, or Bart’s. Only, Greg couldn’t think of any Johns he knew except John Dorsfield in HR, and that man was as dim as they come. He’d probably be Sherlock’s worst nightmare if Anderson didn’t already exist.

Maybe he finally needed to get a flatmate and this John fellow was it? As wonderful as Ms Hudson was Greg doubted she was giving the man that large of a discount on his place. Cab fare had gotten fairly high recently and maybe the eccentric man couldn’t afford his place on his own anymore. Drinks with coworkers was surely a good way to get to know each other better.

Maybe it was a boyfriend?

Greg scoffed out loud.

_Not bloody likely._

“Spock joining us?” Sally asked as they hopped into an idling cab.

“Yeah, didn’t even have to twist his arm.” Greg said with a grin. “You don’t happen to know a John by any chance?”

Sally thought for a moment. “There’s a John in human resources isn’t there? John –Dornhill? Daresville? Something like that -anyways why you asking?”

He shook his head, “No reason... Just Sherlock said he was bringing someone named John. Wondering if we’ve met him before.” Sally’s dark eyebrows rose in surprise.

“Sherlock’s bringing someone?”

“That’s what he said.”

“Did he say anything else?”

“Nope. ‘ _I’m bringing John though’_. That’s it.”

Sally looked just as curious as Greg felt.

“I know.“ Greg said with a shrug. “I’m racking my brain trying to figure out who Sherlock Holmes might possibly find worthy enough to invite out for drinks.”

 

~~ooOOoo~~

 

“Sherlock’s bringing some mystery man.” Sally whispered as soon as she was in earshot of Molly and David.

“Really?”

“A mystery man?”

“Yeah, some bloke named John. Greg and I can’t figure it out.” Greg rolled his eyes regretting giving the Sally the forewarning as he took the seat across from Molly, Sally sitting beside her. They’d lucked out with finding a larger table than usual and Greg tossed his jacket onto the empty chair at the end, Sally following his lead to save the seat that was usually accosted at some point during their nights.

“Maybe they met during his break.” Greg said as he sat down.

“Ha! 12 weeks off and a man in the process, no one is that lucky, not even Sherlock.”

“Maybe it’s for a case?” Munsen jumped in.

“He knows the rules. No work at the pub. That includes unsuspecting witnesses being charmed for information over drinks.”

“Does he know _that_ rule though?” David may not have worked with Sherlock as often as the others but he’d heard enough stories from them to know what he needed to.

“Actually made that one _very_ clear.”

Sally snorted, “Is he going to follow it though?”

“He bloody better.”

Molly spoke up. “A friend? Maybe? Could be-”

Sally cut her off with a snap of her fingers. “God, it’s one of those blokes from the streets isn’t it? His homeless network or whatever he calls it. The man doesn’t talk to anyone else, it has to be.”

“Alright. 20 quid it’s a flatmate.” Greg said when they couldn’t agree on who the mystery John was. “His flat is too bloody big for what he makes, he has to have roped some poor sod into a flatshare by now. Anyone else in?”

“I’ll take that. 20 it’s someone from his homeless network he’s repaying or something.” Sally poured herself glass from the pint at the table, nodding self assuredly.

“I’m in –Put me down for a case. It’s a witness or something.”

“What about you Molly you in?”

Molly looked at the members of the table before sighing guiltily. “20 quid it’s a date.”

Sally scoffed. “One, that’s a garbage first date. Pub with your work mates, I’d turn right the hell around. Two, we’re talking about Sherlock Holmes. You remember that don’t you? You remember who Sherlock Holmes is right?”

“You think he’s doing a good deed. Like that’s any likelier.” Molly argued with a smile on her face, well used to Sally’s snark. “Besides, I never said it was the first date. Just a date in general. An outing, you know.”

“Well we’ll see won’t we. Won’t have to wait long, I can see the beanstalk now.” Sally tipped her head to behind Munsen, sipping her beer and wagging her eyebrows at Molly.

Greg watched as Sherlock moved through the crowd towards them, his head turning behind him every few steps to look behind. In much quicker speed than Sally and Greg had managed Sherlock was breaking through the crowd beside them looking all the while like he hadn’t pushed through 30 sweaty bodies. The table called out their greetings, all sounding fairly too cheerful and innocent, as Sherlock stopped and turned waiting for his anonymous John to catch up.

The anticipation of the reveal made John’s appearance seem anti-climatic. Maybe it was only because there wasn’t an obvious connection between the two, more likely it was the pure _normal_ the man seemed to ooze.

The man –John –was slightly older than Sherlock, maybe a year or two younger than Lestrade himself, his dish water blonde hair making it difficult to distinguish what was naturally pale and what was aging. He was nearly a good half foot shorter than Sherlock, made even smaller by the lean on his plain metal cane. There was a noticeable bulk to him that despite the cane made Greg think he’d had some experience fighting or at least working out.

“John, this is Lestrade, Munsen, Donovan and Molly.”

Sherlock pointed to each of them, John giving a friendly smile as he made eye contact. Greg and Sally grabbed their coats from the chair, freeing the area for one of the men to sit as they said their ‘hellos’. Sherlock took the spot at the end, John taking the remaining seat beside Greg.

“It’s nice to put some faces to names. Nice to meet you all.” John said, his voice soft and friendly. Before Greg could, Sally jumped at the clue, rearranging herself into her ‘Friendly-It’s-Okay-Little-Kid-This-Is-Only-A-Conversation’ interrogation mode.

“ _Ooh,_ so he’s talked about us then. Please tell me it was all bad things. My head would implode if I heard Sherlock Holmes had anything nice to say about us.”

John chuckled, “Well, I don’t know if ‘ _Competent detectives, and not as stupid as the rest_ ’ counts, but you know Sherlock. Being called ‘not stupid’ might as well be a ringing endorsement coming from him.”

Sally and John shared a laugh as David sighed angrily beside Greg. Clearly the officer thought what Greg had. It wasn’t looking likely that John was a witness, besides John’s first words to them eluded to knowing Sherlock for awhile. In addition the sociable man knew the consulting detective a little too well for it to fit the theory of witness. Even if it was as simple a thing as Sherlock’s inability to truly give a compliment.

 _Not Terrible_ had been the closest he’d ever gotten. When Sally officially ended things with Anderson she’d got _Finally a show of intelligence_ which had shocked her into silence for a few minutes at the time.

“Well, Sherlock hasn’t said much about you. What do you do?”

“John just got back from serving in Afghanistan.” Sherlock spoke up eyeing the area for what Greg assumed was the waitress. He had a habit of ordering a whiskey upon his arrival.

A bell rings in Greg’s head, the same one that tells him he’s stumbled onto a clue but doesn’t know what it leads to.

“Yeah, back for good now.” John says his tone slightly wistful as he patted his leg.

“Thanks for serving mate; I got two cousins who did tours. Rounds on me, help yourself.” David piped up, raising his glass from the spot beside Greg.

John awkwardly accepted the drink, filling himself a half glass from the pint. With knowledge that the man had been in the military Greg wonders how likely it is that John is homeless, and by the expression on Sally’s face she’s wondering the same thing. His wool sweater looks old but not dirty or worn-out, in fact it looked fairly comfortable for the cold January evening. But Greg had been a bobby and knew himself how many vets ended up on the street.

“So, what were you two doing this afternoon?” Molly shyly said, noticing John’s discomfort and changing the subject. Or possibly to confirm for her own theories on John and Sherlock’s affiliation.

She was quite tricky when she wanted to be.

“Oh, Sherlock was just filling me in on that green ladder case you lot were working on the last few days.”

Greg sighed heavily. “Sherlock. You can’t talk about cases with people who aren’t working on them.”

Sherlock looked blankly at Greg.

“I always tell John about cases.” Greg sputtered but Sherlock ignored him. ”Besides, John’s a doctor, he understands confidentiality.”

The image of Sherlock’s (or maybe it was John’s?) RAMC mug flashed into Greg’s head, halting him from arguing long enough for Sherlock to roll his eyes and stand up from his seat at the end. “I hardly even use names, let alone first and last if that helps. I’m heading to the bar, the waitress tonight won’t make it to the table for another 23 minutes.” Then he turned towards the bar, grumbling all the while about serving rotation and circuit efficiency.

“If you keep it to yourself till after we convict that’s all I ask.” Greg said tiredly after they watched Sherlock march off.

“’Course Inspector.”

“Call me Greg. I’ve no idea if Sherlock even knows that. I’m starting to believe he thinks my parents named me Detective Inspector Lestrade.”

John laughed outright. “You know, I’ve not heard him call you anything else so you might have a point.”

“Oh, so you too live together then?” Greg stated casually, already planning on buying a victory shot for himself with his winnings.

John looked at him in a way that reminded him of the face Sherlock made when Greg said something especially stupid. Like when he was missing something obvious and hadn’t realized it.

“ _Ye-es_.” John said slowly.

Greg whooped out loud as Sally groaned, slapping her hand on the table looking peeved. Molly shook her head, a smile still playing on her face despite the loss while David just sighed and took out his wallet. As Greg’s hand touched David’s 20 pound note John spoke up once more.

“It would be weird if we didn’t -we _are_ married after all.”

Everyone froze. Sally’s head lifted from the table, her face slack in shock as Greg replayed John’s words over in his head.

“What?” Greg asked dumbly, hand still holding the note as he turned back to face John.

“You really didn’t know then?”

“He _\- what_?... _What_?”

John’s smile grew as Molly began to giggle behind Greg's shocked back.

“Seven years this July Inspector.”

The use of his job title didn’t go unnoticed by Greg. It kind off felt like a low blow.

“ _What?!_ ” Sally shouted.

Greg ignored the heads that turned to look at them nearby. His mind was reeling. This man couldn’t be _married_ to Sherlock. He must’ve been hired to pull one over them or he was just mad or, or _something_.

Greg had known Sherlock for 6 years! There’d never been _any_ evidence that he’d been married! Sherlock hadn’t mentioned this man _once_ in the entire time he knew him _,_ Greg would have bloody remembered something like that!

His head turned towards the giggling.

“Is he serious?” Molly began to laugh in earnest as she bent over the table snorting into her hand. “Did you know about this Molly?!” Greg demanded.

“Your _faces_! I’m sorry, it’s too funny!” She calmed herself a little before going on, her face bright red from her fit. “It was silly but I asked Sherlock out for coffee ages ago, he told me then that his husband probably wouldn’t like that. I really thought you all knew! His ring makes it pretty obvious.”

“Sherlock doesn’t wear a ring!” Sally cried.

“Actually Donovan, I do.” Sherlock cut in as he came back with two glasses. “The only time I take my ring off is when I do experiments. It’s not my fault you don’t observe.”

Greg looked down to Sherlock’s hand wrapped around the amber glass.

And there it was, as visible as the stupid on Greg’s face.

A thick gold wedding band.

The detective inspector gaped as he thought back to all the times he spent in Sherlock’s company and how many times he’d missed such an obvious clue.

He was a bloody _detective._ How the fu-

“The gloves.” Greg said slowly, comprehension dawning on him.

“That’s really no excuse Lestrade.” Sherlock said as he handed John one of the glasses. “Anyone with a keen eye would have been able to see the prominent distortion along the finger under anything besides mittens or welding gloves –neither of which I use as fashion attire.”

Greg managed not to gape even further when Sherlock’s hand rested on John’s wrist for a moment before letting go. _Christ_ he was an _affectionate_ partner too _._ Would the surprises stop at some point tonight?

“You’ve never mentioned him!” Sally erupted once again.

“Yeah!” David added, “4 years you’ve been coming out to drinks to us, didn’t talk about him once.”

It seemed like Greg’s ego wasn’t the only one assassinated tonight.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Work should be spent talking about work, I’ve made that clear Donovan. As for outside that, it’s hardly my fault you’d rather discuss my lapses in useless pop culture knowledge than inquire about my personal life. That’s your shortcoming.”

“Am I in a bloody coma?” Sally genuinely asked the others, sounding flabbergasted and looking lost. “Was I hit by a fucking bus or something and dreaming this? Did they bring back Candid Camera and I’m the last one to find out?”

Molly leaned over and pat her arm a smile still stretched across her face. “Sherlock on Candid Camera? You do remember who Sherlock Holmes is don’t you?” She giggled out.

“John, I believe you possess something you owe me.” Sherlock drawled, leaning back in his seat sipping his whiskey while a smile played on his face.

“I still don’t believe you didn’t actively hide it Sherlock.” John said to Sherlock –to his _husband_ –as he shook his head happily.

The smile slipped off Sherlock’s face and was replaced with an eyebrow raise that had sent lesser men running.

“John. It took five years for Lestrade to realize the flat has two bedrooms.” Sherlock fixed John with a look. “Five. _Years_. He’d been in that house dozens of times. The exterior windows are enough to tell you what you need to know about the building! How do you not already know there are 2 rooms just by _walking_ by the flat? It’s obvious John and it took him _five years_.”

John's blonde eyebrows rose. "And ring?”

Sherlock pointed directly at Greg’s flabbergasted face.

“I’ve waved it in his face! Nothing John! Nothing! I couldn’t hav-“

“You _never_ waved a ring in my face!” Greg finally spoke up, needing to defend himself despite the shock still bouncing around his system.

Sherlock’s eyes widened before he leaned forward and set Greg with a look similar to the one John had just given him. “3 years ago. We were over there at that bar. You remember?”

Greg shook his head, he couldn’t believe Sherlock had ever shown him a ring. Bullshit.

“It was after that case with the mid 30’s woman, odd blow to the side of the head. Blue paint on her hands-“

“I remember that one!” John cut in with a jolly smile. “The White and Blue Woman. Feet had been elevated above her head so her legs were nearly white when you found her you said. The son did it didn’t he?” Sherlock’s face softened into a look Greg had never seen on the detective.

He looked at John all self-satisfaction and relief mixing into one soppy looking smile. Like John was the clue that finally pulled a case together.

“Yes, that would be the case John.”

“The warehouse with the all those creepy paintings, the weird diary entries –it sounded like a Hitchcock film. I liked that one.”

“You like them all John.” He smiled at the man before turning back Greg. ”You and I, Lestrade were sitting over there; you asked me what I was looking for in a man, quite bluntly. Do you remember?”

Before Greg could refuse the memory drifted to the front of his brain. A memory he’d visited multiple times before but always left feeling stupid and embarrassed.

 

_“So, what are you looking, y'know, for in man?”_

_Sherlock turning to him, staring at him blankly._

_The tap-tap-tap of metal against glass._

_“I’m not.”_

 

“Oh my god.” Greg mumbled as the moment came back to him his head banging against the table in shame.

That was 3 years ago. For 3 bloody years he’d just assumed the man wasn’t interested in relationships. 3 years of avoiding asking the man about his love life only to find out the answer was sitting there this entire time.

He could see it so clearly now. The shine of the ring on Sherlock’s hand as he covered his mouth in thought _–oh fuck that was amusement wasn’t it?_  It'd been right there; right under his nose –under Sherlock’s nose in fact, and he’d bloody missed it.

Sherlock Holmes.

Married.

And very happily apparently.

“So you do remember. Good. I have to say it was fairly amusing, if not disappointing, to watch you ignore what was so obviously in front of you. I wasn’t sure how much more transparent I could have been.”

Evidently it needed to be spelled out for him like an officer fresh out of school.

“Sherlock.” John shook his head. “You’ve already done their heads in, which is what you wanted; do you need to gloat as well?”

“The weekly phone calls? They were to you weren’t they?” Sally said when the shock had worn off, her voice equally stunned and embarrassed as her boss’s had been.

John smiled and nodded. “I should hope so. Sherlock said it’d take you at least 3 years to notice. I said 6 months. Thanks to you lot I’m out 50 quid.” He pulled out a wrinkled note from his wallet and handed it over to the grinning Sherlock.”I was really rooting for you lot too.”

Sally gulped down the remainder of her drink before refilling her glass, the remains of her ego blow etched into her face. David just blinked; looking lost as he dazedly stared at the table in intense thought. Greg, well…

Greg was wondering how he’d gotten to be a detective in the first place.

Molly gave a gentle cough.

 _“Hem-hem_. So now that that’s out…” She said smugness seeping through her mousy voice. ”I believe you three owe me something as well?”

 

~ _The End._ ~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope the ending was alright and thank you so much for reading!  
> I'm my own beta ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯so if you've seen any mistakes don't hesitate to tell me,
> 
> Doesn't hurt to leave a kudos so please do :)  
> 

**Author's Note:**

> My first work in over ten years :)  
> If you don't think it's terrible please hit the kudos <3  
> All comments welcome.  
> Thank you for reading!  
>   
> follow me on my tumblr [here](https://vanillabroompolish.tumblr.com)!


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